Grief of miscarriage leads artist to reflect on what we don't discuss

Community members and local business gather to celebrate life and start a conversation about death. 10.30.16
Produced by Joe Lamberti/Staff Photographer

'People don't talk about miscarriage; it is an unmentionable thing that occasionally makes it into the footnotes in retrospect, whispered in kitchens from woman to woman while practical matters are tended to, overheard by nieces and grandchildren who learn the word as a secret,' writes Alison Dilworth in her blog, Nameless Things, which deals, among other things, with a miscarriage.(Photo: Alison Dilworth)

She has used her artwork to create sacred spaces in places where loss has occurred, such as the roof of an infamous Philadelphia women's clinic.

"Regard", a collaboration by Dilworth and Ryan Hinkel, was installed on the rooftop of Kermit Gosnell's Women's Medical Society Clinic in the fall of 2011, after it was shut down by the FBI. The clinic was the site of illegal late-term abortions of newborns. (Gosnell is serving life without parole).

Today, Dilworth — who is a muralist, painter, teacher, writer and doula — is now contemplating creating private shrines for the dying, something she has done for friends, but not yet for strangers.

Dilworth will take part in the #BeforeIDie community gathering on Sunday, Oct. 29, sponsored by the Courier-Post, Samaritan Healthcare & Hospice and Perkins Center for the Arts.

The artist has a deeply personal relationship with loss.

Her blog, Nameless Things, includes a post titled "Your Bartender is Having a Miscarriage and You Order Another Round,'' a multimedia reflection upon the loss of her first pregnancy and the reluctance in our culture to speak about miscarriage.

Alison Dilworth is a painter, muralist, art teacher, doula and writer. You can read her blog Nameless Things at http://abbydilworth.blogspot.com/ She will be a part of #BeforeIDie, a community gathering meant to change the way we talk about death, Sunday, Oct. 29 at Perkins Center for the Arts in Collingswood.(Photo: Theo Constantinou)

Q. You came to my attention when a mutual friend shared a post from your blog on Facebook, “Your Bartender is Having a Miscarriage and You Order Another Round.’’ Can you tell us a little bit about that, and what you hope people most get from seeing your images and reading your words?

A: I wrote "Your Bartender is Having a Miscarriage and You Order Another Round" and posted it publicly months after I processed the loss of my first pregnancy. I was behind the bar making cocktails, sustaining banter, washing glassware, losing my baby, noticing that behind my face, I was suffering a profound loss that was invisible to the guy detailing his past sexual exploits and the band played on. My body was losing my baby and I closed the bar alone that night, as I did every Thursday for six and a half years, going through the motions of familiarity. I am constantly writing down fragments that encapsulate the moment I'm in (for me), and that night, I wrote down the title of this blog post because it was such a plain acknowledgment of the moment I was in and how ordinary life kept going on around me. My goal in all that I do is connection. Connection defies isolation and loneliness. I think if humans can meet in the moment of loss, or at least hold space in uncomfortable situations, then we're being real.

Q. You write at one point: 'People don't talk about miscarriage; it is an unmentionable thing that occasionally makes it into the footnotes in retrospect, whispered in kitchens from woman to woman while practical matters are tended to, overheard by nieces and grandchildren who learn the word as a secret.'

How can women, in particular, change the story from a footnote we find out about in retrospect to a conversation we need to have with our sisters, our mothers, our friends, our partners throughout our lives? How does this fit in with the other ways we need to shift how we support each other?

A: People are afraid of discomfort. Women are advised not to share news of their pregnancies until after their first trimester because of how high the risk of early miscarriage is: This advice is given for protection. Three of my best friends came to me at the news of my miscarriage — they made a beautiful dinner and brought music and spent the night and let me cry and sat beside me on good blankets.

People have different ways of giving. I think women, in particular, have the gift of holding. We gather experience into story, and we hold these stories as wisdom. We know that sometimes what is needed is a gesture of warmth, a trash-picked gift, a cup of coffee and the ability to listen, a stupid movie, a walk in the woods. Patriarchy is freaking out right now, as evidenced by the ridiculous Ego-In-Chief serving as president; the great fear that something will be taken away is at its peak because the male-driven system isn't resonating with the rise of wisdom as an undercurrent. So, I guess in answer to your question, women need to notice and claim their own power.

Q: There is something about your photographs, in particular, that seem like short poems. Do you read a lot of poetry, and if so, can you name a few favorites you might keep close at hand?

A: That's an interesting observation. I don't read a lot of poetry, but was raised around poets in the English Department of University of Windsor and I'm surrounded by the sort of poets who are musicians. Leonard Cohen, Dylan Thomas, Birdie Busch, Emily Zeitlyn, Susan Holbrook, Judith Fitzgerald, my Dad (Thomas Dilworth) are a few poets to check out.

Q. While the story of what happened is so beautifully shared, it is your images that haunt and inspire a visitor to your blog. Can you talk a bit about how that all comes together for you? Are you gathering images and then writing, are you writing and then creating art to illustrate your thoughts? Is it more a coming together of art you already created?

A: I make books. The most interesting art I make is accidental and put in a place that is not intended for public consumption —- it's interesting because it's alive and raw and it's how I process/document being in the world. So, I can always reference my books if I decide to further explore something that happened in the past. Most of my writing happens on a manual typewriter. The juxtaposition of text and image has become the language I need to communicate things I can't find the simple sentence for.

''The day we found no heartbeat, the best man I know drove me to the site of a mural I was about to paint so I could sit and sketch and try to be in the world somehow,' writes Alison Dilworth in a blog post titled 'Your Bartender is Having a Miscarriage and You Order Another Round.'(Photo: Alison Dilworth)

Q. In addition to being an artist, teacher and writer (and former bartender), you are also a doula. What was your calling to do that? And how did your miscarriage affect the way you approach that calling now?

A: I am called to work as a doula to support women through one of the most profound rites of passage. My experiences of miscarriage and birth allow me to be better at holding space, and understanding that each woman has her own individual experiences around birth. It's the most vulnerable and powerful collision of forces — the wisdom of the body knowing what to do, the mind trying not to get out of the way. Women need to feel safe during birth. To feel safe, we need to be present, lean into our feelings until they take us to the next place, remember to breathe, get silly and laugh through the process.

Miscarriage is a subject many of us do not discuss, even with those closest to us. Alison Dilworth shared her story with the hopes it might help shift our consciousness towards a more honest approach to such losses.(Photo: Alison Dilworth)

Q. You are mom to a young daughter and are expecting again. What is one aspect of your approach to your visual art work that feels the influence of being a parent?

A: Voracity on a budget. I don't have the time alone that I used to, so when I'm working in the studio, it's with a new sort of hunger and the bizarre focus required when you don't know if nap time will end way too soon. I veer toward the impractical in art-making. Balance is really tricky, and I can't claim to have it, but when I'm making work, I feel so fully alive, which is how I feel when I'm hanging out with Zoey or feeling my new baby kick. This is a chapter in my life in which I prioritize motherhood over making art and that's just my own choice. I always say, 'Do it like you mean it.' And I am trying to do that in many directions at once.

Q: Our #BeforeIDie event is about changing the way we talk about death. You mentioned when we met that dead birds are often a child’s first encounter with death. Was that something that happened to you as a child? Are you already thinking about your daughter’s first questions about death and future conversations about your own losses?

A: My parents always talked openly with us about death. My Dad helped my sister and I bury a dead bird we found in the alley behind our house. I never made this connection before your question, but I occasionally do taxidermy on dead birds I find with an interest in preservation that has no goal of making the body look alive — not conventional taxidermy. Sometimes it's about preserving only their wings posed as in flight. It has to do with honoring the little being.

When I was little, two kids on my block experienced the death of their father. I was maybe 4 years old and my parents told me what happened. The next time I saw those kids, I said. "Your Daddy's dead." I had no idea about tact or sensitivity; I was open and curious and acknowledging the only thing on my mind, but in such a plain way. The older brother wanted to kill me from that moment on. I remember scrambling up a fence while he threw a bucket at me a couple years later. I didn't know how to say how sorry I was that their Dad was dead, that I still had a Dad, that I said something that hurt them where they were already hurting. My daughter is a little firecracker — she's both gentle and fierce, and I plan to be real with her while having healthy boundaries. My hope is that I can share when it's called for, but really to listen to her questions and see her through her own future losses.

Alison Dilworth's paintings and murals can be found in private and public spaces throughout Philadelphia. Some of her work draws upon Day of the Dead imagery.(Photo: Alison Dilworth)

Q. Do you think women have an easier time talking about private losses than men do? Do you think we can help shift that so that we aren’t afraid to look a stranger in the eye, as you write in your blog, and get real with each other about the pain and loss every lifetime contains?

A: I think women are able to go deep into emotional dynamics because women have historically been called into roles of comfort. The word ''comfort'' actually means "with strength'' or "to strengthen". Humans who can sit with and explore their own discomfort are called to move beyond it to a place of observation. When my friend Bobby was dying of CF (cystic fibrosis), he and I had long conversations about death. He was in a place to talk openly about it —- his wonderings, questions, fears — all of it. But so many of the people who loved him were having their own experiences of fear around the thought of losing him that they just weren't comfortable going there in conversation. I think if we can get comfortable talking about death, any burden of discomfort from the listener can be seen as an indication of where there is work to be done.

Q. What do you hope people will bring away from your #BeforeIDie presentation?

A: Maybe my way of presenting how I put experience into tangible form through art will be helpful to someone who needs a less linguistic, linear approach to processing death. I invite people to find a place to put things in whatever way works best for them. My books are the language I've developed. If I had more time, I'd run a bookmaking workshop for this event.

The #BeforeIDie interactive event to confront the once-taboo topic of death will be held Oct. 29.(Photo: .)

If you go

#BEFOREIDIE 2017

This community gathering will take place Sunday, Oct. 29, 30 Irvin Ave., Collingswood at Perkins Center for the Arts, Collingswood, sponsored by Courier-Post, Samaritan Healthcare & Hospice and Perkins Center for the Arts. Free. Visit SamaritanNJ.org to register.

Morning session for families, kids and teens: 11:30 a.m.-1:30 p.m.

Make art with the Samari-teens; Hear stories by Queen Nur; Share songs with Community Rocks!; Afternoon session is 21 and up only: 2-6:30 p.m.;Meet Instagram star/pathologist’s assistant Nicole Angemi; Workshop with Best Day of My Life So Far founder Benita Cooper; Hear stories about dying and living across cultures with Queen Nur; Share your bucket list on Before-I-Die wall; Find out how to donate your body to science; Enjoy artwork, live music, prizes, Day of the Dead face painting Learn about living wills, organ donation, funeral options, estate planning; Sample beers from Tonewood and Flying Fish and wine from Sharrott Winery; Savor food from Square Meal, Tortilla Press, Bistro di Marino, Harvest Grill & Wine Bar; Enjoy coffee/dessert: Revolution Coffee Roasters, Di Bartolo Bakery, Constellation Collective; Check out local vendors including Inkwood Books, Death Couture and many more